Notes
by bitterosemary
Summary: One night on prefect rounds, Hermione Granger encounters a certain swarthy Slytherin attempting to retrieve his notes. Within the rest of fifth year, notes come into play more than either of them would expect. BlaiseHermione. FANON FIFTH YEAR
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Most obviously, I do not own Harry Potter. _

_AN: First of all, I do not claim to believe or hope that this pairing will sprout up within the next Harry Potter book, and I do not want it to. I only want to experiment with Rowling's fantastic characters. Secondly, t__his is my very, very first fanfiction, so I make no promises as to quality. I've always b__een a beta, not a writer. __Constructive criticism is appreciated. Also, my time is exceedingly limited, so updates will likely be sparse. But I do intend to finish it eventually. It should span around 15 or so chapters._

* * *

**Chapter One**

The night was devilishly cold, winds howling a loud cry that bore perturbing similarities to the many mourning, echoing laments heard from the familiar from ghosts of the castle. Hermione involuntarily shivered at the comparison. Those winds were incessant and distinct enough to distract her from her book, which she had made little progression in. She resituated herself in the armchair, and glanced across at her companions. Harry was angrily scribbling something out on his paper – no doubt divination homework, Hermione supposed. Quite placated at the thought, she observed Ron. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing wizard's chess by himself. He was winning, she gathered from the smug look on his face.

The fire was divinely warm, a world apart from the wailing winds outside the common room. She sighed and shut her book. She could accomplish little tonight - except, that is, reveling in the heat of the fire.

Harry cursed loudly. Hermione threw him a look of distaste and decided to make the inquiry she had been trying to resist.

"When is that due?" she asked pointedly.

Harry glared at her.

"Tomorrow."

She returned the glare.

"What is the essay on?"

"I'll handle it."

"Suit yourself."

The clock chimed, and Hermione jumped up. "Ron! It's nine! We have to make our rounds tonight. Oh, how could I have forgotten…" She hastily packed up her books. So much for a peaceful night by the common room fire.

Ron frowned. "I was _this _far away from checkmate!" He gestured, holding his thumb and index fingers closely together to emphasize. The white king chess piece shook his fist triumphantly at Ron, who promptly flicked the gesticulating king over with a well-aimed finger.

"You're a _prefect_," Hermione reminded.

"I believe I liked it better when I didn't have all of this responsibility," he sniffed affectedly, standing up and stretching. "We never catch anyone anyway."

"Ron, it's an _honor_," she retaliated, eyes flashing as she laid her book bag next to Harry's to retrieve later.

Ron mumbled something incoherent, clearly not agreeing with Hermione's opinion of their duties.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said distractedly, scowling at Ron.

"Erm, yeah," Harry responded, looking uncomfortable.

"Mate, would you mind clearing this up - " Ron began, nodding towards the chess board.

"Sure, sure. Go on," Harry said, waving him off, intent upon finishing his work without witnessing a row.

Hermione stuck her nose in the air and walked with great superiority over to the portrait hole, and exited. Ron followed.

"Which way?" he questioned, stepping out after her.

"You take the left corridor down to the trophy room. I take the right to the library."

"How appropriate," Ron said, raising his eyebrow at library.

"Those were the instructions given to me by the Head - " she was fuming.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted before she could gather steam. "I'll see you at nine." He nodded awkwardly at her and ventured off into the dark left hall.

"Hmph." All of her current feelings expressed, she began her rounds.

* * *

Hermione estimated that she had been walking the corridor for an hour or so, when, for the first time in her approximate three months and eleven days as prefect, she encountered a suspicious noise. 

"_Lumos_," she whispered, casting a faint luminescence.

She was a few yards away from the library entrance – where the sound seemed to have issued from. Purposefully she traveled around the curve of the hall, quite prepared to deduct points and escort a baffled second-year back to his or her house.

However, it was no second-year whom she found. It was a fifth year, just as she was. Blaise Zabini stood there, fiddling with the lock on the library door.

The small light from her wand, which wasn't enough to alert him to her, was enough to illuminate his face, looking pale in the night despite his normally dark-colored skin. His thick, black hair was haphazard, she noted, as if he had only just gotten out of bed.

"_Alohomora_," he whispered, pointing his own wand at the lock. To Hermione's surprise, it clicked open.

"Wait," she spoke up, before he could enter the library. Hermione was unsure of what she was going to say to Zabini, who was just as old as she was, in order to prevent him from breaking the rules. Furthermore, he was a Slytherin and perhaps even one of Malfoy's companions, though she could not recall seeing Zabini in his company. And he was taller than she, not to mention extremely imposing, his eyebrows arched with a challenge. But this was wrong, she couldn't let it bother her; _she _was a prefect and was certainly not about to allow any abuse of school rules to take place under her nose, intimidating boy or not. '_Certainly not_.'

He whipped around, and stared at her wide-eyed.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she asked, her voice higher than usual.

Zabini's face contorted into a frown – then a scowl.

"I –" he began, searching for words. "I left a note in the library and wanted to retrieve it. There's a test tomorrow," he added, tone growing contemptuous. "Surely there isn't a problem with getting your study notes back."

"No," Hermione, walking a few steps forward. "But at this hour, yes."

He fidgeted.

"I _need_ those notes," he said, looking at the door almost longingly. "I'll fail without them."

"Which test is it?" she asked impertinently.

Zabini glanced up at her. "History of Magic. For the life of me, I'm not able to remember the year of the third goblin rebellion."

She smiled despite herself.

"Yes, they do rebel rather a lot, don't they?"

_"_Yes," he agreed, and regarded her warily, but with noticeably less scorn. The concurrence surprised Hermione. She blinked. "And I'm something awful with dates," he continued.

"It was 1607. And the rebellion was lead by Uldrod the Uncouth," Hermione informed him.

He released a long breath. "1607," he recited in a relieved voice.

She nodded. It was decidedly odd speaking with him – she hadn't before, except for perhaps a few mumbled words. In fact, she couldn't remember one time she had had even the simplest of conversations with a Slytherin without hateful remarks about her muggle heritage being catapulted at her at the opening and close of every sentence.

"Are you going to report me?" Zabini asked suddenly.

Hermione wasn't sure what she should do. She was most determinedly against going against any of the school rules, but hadn't she herself broken some of them? Only for an important cause, she reminded herself. Only to prevent something bad from happening. But wasn't Zabini's cause to prevent something damaging too? He would get a low grade without those dates – something she personally feared. How could she punish him for that? Would she have not done the same?

"No," Hermione said decisively. "But try to remember your notes next time – and don't tell anyone I saw you."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, and locked the library door once more. "I truly appreciate it."

"Now, go straight back to your house," she commanded, making sure he knew her sympathy only extended so far. In response to the defiant look he paid her, she included, "Or I _will_ report you." Zabini cocked a presumably disbelieving eyebrow at her threat, and appeared decided to remain where he was. But after a moment, he must have reconsidered; he nodded at her - and if she was not mistaken, with a hint of mocking obedience. He started walking down the corridor.

"Good luck on your test," Hermione added in a lukewarm tone before he was out of earshot.

"1607," Zabini dutifully cited, moments away.

She allowed herself a slight smile before finishing her rounds.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two - Potions

The next morning Hermione reflected again upon how very uncharacteristic it was for a Slytherin to speak in such a manner – to show any gratitude whatsoever. She could not remember ever speaking with Zabini before, not even in lessons. And during those, she had been too preoccupied to pay him any notice. But she was curious about him now. Perhaps it had been his desire for a good History of Magic grade last night that had interested her. Maybe it was the desperation for the later or simply the late hour that had prevented him from acknowledging the silent rivalry between their houses. No matter what conclusion she came to, she still didn't know what to think of it of his attitude in thanking her. Why would a _Slytherin_ thank _her_, a Gryffindor prefect, even if she had told him the third goblin rebellion year? The typical response to such would have been a prejudiced remark about her blood, or some other similar insult. Oh, how she hated to be confused.

"It's not good for your young face to frown so, my dear," said a portrait Hermione was passing on her way to breakfast. It was of a rather busty woman who was lounged amongst an array of cats. "Lines will develop. If you must, sleep with a warm cloth with crushed beetles' wings and perhaps a mixture of verbena leaves - "

"Please, ma'am," Hermione intervened politely, not very much wanting to hear beautification tips from a portrait, "I'm late to breakfast."

The portrait sighed dramatically and dismissively waved a hand at her.

She hurriedly continued to the Great Hall, and reaching it, took her customary seat across from Harry and Ron.

"You're later than us," Ron stated ceremoniously, a second before he shoved a sausage into his mouth. He continued while chewing, "Ah oo ill?"

She shook her head, daintily pealing a satsuma. Then, remembering his frustrated state last night, she shot her interrogative eye at Harry.

He paused, annoyed, mid-spoonful of porridge to his mouth and said, "I finished the Divination paper before you returned from your rounds." He captured the spoon with his lips aggressively.

"Good," Hermione responded, unbothered by his irritation, and redirected her gaze at Ron. "I never thought – have you finished yours?"

"Mmhmm," he replied, nodding to her with the mouthful of toast he had just devoured.

She raised her eyebrows suspiciously, but said nothing.

"Catch anyone on rounds?" Harry asked, changing the subject.

"Yes, in fact - "

"Hey – hey!"

The interruption was made by the Weasley twins, who, after making their theatrical entrance of winking, waving, and whistling at every female student in sight, plopped down on either side of Hermione. The sunshine filing in from the ceiling almost rivaled them; they were so cheery at that moment it was rather blinding.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" Fred said, beaming brightly at her as he helped himself to toast.

"I suppose - "

"You _suppose_?" George choked, disbelievingly. "Come now, Hermione, seize the moment!" He grabbed her partially pealed satsuma and balanced it on the tip of his nose. All but Hermione chuckled.

She glowered and held her hand out for it. He reluctantly gave it back to her, shaking his head sadly. "I suppose you'll be 'supposing' forever," he declared. "What a boring life."

"Sad, sad, sad," Fred followed.

"Better that than stealing someone's breakfast for silly tricks," she told them scornfully.

"Ah, but still, my friend," Fred said, "You'll wind up in a houseful of cats and no one else if you don't live a little."

"If you think living - "

"Oh my!" George exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically, looking astonished at his watch. He gaped around at Hermione, Harry, and Ron. "Your potions class begins in seven minutes! Imagine what Snape would oh-so-charmingly say if you were late!"

Fred pulled his robe tightly around himself and contorted his face to a very cross expression – apparently an attempt at Snape's own perpetual scowl. He wagged a finger at the fifth years. "Fifty thousand points from Gryffindor!" Fred proclaimed in his best rendition of the potion master's low and menacing voice.

George promptly followed suit with, "And detention of scrubbing my greasy hair clean each morning until you're thirty!"

"Or attempting to," Fred added for good measure.

Hermione cast the twins her mightiest glare, and stood. Harry immediately jumped out of his seat, and Ron took a ceremonial moment for a last drink of pumpkin juice before they set off for Snape's class. It might actually be his last.

"And I get possession your knickers!" one of the twins called, still carrying on with their Snape impersonation, as the trio departed from the Great Hall.

* * *

They made it to the dungeons with a minute to spare. As the three walked in and towards the Gryffindor table, Hermione absent-mindedly glanced at the Slytherins. Blaise Zabini caught her eye. She looked away, perhaps too fast, and hastily took her seat next to Neville Longbottom. Zabini was a Slytherin. He'd probably already discarded his gratitude and was discussing a next elaborate insult to aim at her with Malfoy. She shook that off, however, and pulled out her potion notes.

"Who can tell me which famous potion had the key ingredient of bistort leaves, also known as adderwort?" Snape's voice entered the stone classroom, echoing off of the dank walls.

Hermione raised her hand, as always. And so, she noticed out of the corner of her eye, did Blaise Zabini.

"No one, I see…," The potion's professor drawled, not even looking at his students. Hermione slowly let her hand fall, as she usually was forced to let it do. Her quick glance at Zabini told her that his, also, had made its descent.

Professor Snape's back was to them as he flicked his wand in an irritated fashion at the blackboard. A rather cryptic diagram appeared, complete with an illustration of the slender bistort leaf and its rather cottony flower. Hermione quickly scribbled a replica on the top of her parchment.

"This diagram will be the instructions for the potion you will write me a two foot and _approximately three inch_ essay on by Wednesday," Snape glared about the room, then lazily flicked his wand at the board again. The diagram vanished. "And on Friday, you will be brewing the potion." His eyes lit up disturbingly. "And those of you who did not write the exact length of essay I requested, or did so with repugnantly large handwriting," he looked treacherously at Ron. " - will be sampling it."

Draco Malfoy raised his hand, smirking sideways at Ron.

"Yes, Malfoy?"

"Sir, what does the potion do exactly?" he asked, directing his gaze completely at the professor with a ridiculously earnest expression.

Snape smiled perversely.

"That is for you to find out."

The rest of the class had been review work thankfully. Not one student had noxious liquids forced down their throat; apart from the adderwort potion assignment, it really had been a lovely lesson.

After Transfiguration and Potions, Harry, Ron, and Hermione continued on their way to lunch, Ron quite openly proclaiming that Snape was many profane things that would have sent his mother into an apoplectic fit had she been close enough to hear him.

"Ronald," Hermione was admonishing passionately, "I would appreciate it if you would control your tongue in the presence of - " She gasped abruptly and halted.

"What is it?" Ron demanded as he stopped. Harry, previously lost in his own thoughts, swore quietly as he grabbed hold of a nearby tapestry of Franciscan monks to avoid colliding into Ron's back.

"My Arithmancy notes! I left them on my bedside table - " she sputtered, searching through her bag in vain.

"You can fetch them after lunch - "

"No, I'll go now," she said resolutely, hefting her bag over her shoulder once more. "I can't take the chance of being without them - I just know I'll forget something if I am. I'll see you two later," she told them curtly before dashing away.

"But lunch - " Ron didn't have time to finish. Hermione was already running up the staircase to the Gryffindor tower. He was too surprised to notice Harry's attempts to quiet the already incensed monks behind him (Hermione was right, it was a bad idea to insult anyone's mother in front of elders).


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, even those of you who didn't have good things to say. I really do appreciate constructive criticism, but one must consider this is my first endeavor at fanfiction. I apologize for its flaws, but I also expect some essence of politeness when someone points them out. I also want to say sorry for how long it takes for me to update. I have a stupidly busy life and writing's on the back burner. Thank you all! I hope you keep reading._

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Chapter Three – Arithmancy

Hermione burst into the girl's dormitory and snatched her notes triumphantly off her bedside table. Only after cramming them into her bag did she pause to catch her long-forgotten breath. Then she made her way out of Gryffindor house. She was exceptionally relieved, and if she hurried, she could probably shove a few bites of whatever food was being served that day for lunch.

So Hermione walked briskly, determined not to run, toward the Great Hall. But as she passed the library, someone distracted her.

"Granger," said Blaise Zabini, striding out of the library. She stopped, surprised to see him.

"Zabini," she returned, nodding at him uncertainly.

"Where are you hurrying off to?" he asked casually. He leaned against the wall, polishing his fingernails on his robes.

She regarded him shrewdly and replied, "To lunch."

Zabini cocked an eyebrow. "Rather late, don't you think?"

"I forgot my notes," she sniffed, averting her gaze to the stone floor. He chuckled annoyingly, and she shot him her fiercest look.

"How coincidental," he said, grinning maliciously in response to her expression. All thoughts of his gratitude last night were erased from her brain. He was most definitely a Slytherin through and through, she concluded. "Say, were you able to retrieve them without a prefect - "

"How did you do on your test, Zabini?" she snapped suddenly.

Zabini frowned. He seemed angered by her question, but further amazed her by leaning forward until he was mere inches above her face. She could disturbingly feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. His eyes were a never ending deep blue, she noted inadvertently, like a mysterious sea she was propelled to delve into. Those eyes bore down into her own, for what seemed like a very long moment. Finally he replied quite smoothly, "_1607._." He abruptly straightened and walked down the hall, smirking at her over his shoulder.

Hermione shuddered. In her mind, Zabini had switched from a regular Slytherin full of ill-will, to a not-so-bad, grateful Slytherin who wanted good grades (which, she had to admit, was something she still very much approved of and had lessened her unease towards him). Now he had changed back again – only worse.

Remembering where she had been headed, she frantically checked her watch. Lunch was an option no longer; she had about fifteen minutes to climb a few floors to Arithmancy. Grimacing, she remembered Zabini was in fact in the same class. Hermione heaved a sigh and set off in the direction he had left in a moment before, walking rather slowly so as not to encounter him again.

She had never been late for Arithmancy. Not once. With the exception of the few occasions she had been a patient in the Hospital Wing and absent, no matter what had been happening with Harry, You-Know-Who, or anything else in her life, Hermione was always on time. Today, some unseen force seemed to be battling against her in order to break that perfect timing.

First, she had tripped: tripped on a moving staircase that had sent her books, quills, and notes flying all the way down the many steps. Hermione had scrambled up to gather them. She was particularly glad at this moment that she had thought to perform an Unbreakable charm on her ink bottle when Peeves had taken the fancy of dropping them on unsuspecting students. After gathering all of her belongings, the staircase moved away from the hall leading to Arithmancy. Despite her coaxing, it would not relocate. She had to then take a longer route (which she ran all the way through) to the classroom.

"So much for seizing the moment," she reflected bitterly on George's words as she raced down the corridor.

Then, hair bushier than ever, robes hanging haphazard on her shoulders, stockings spotted with dirt from falling and perhaps even sporting a few small holes, and not to mention the wild look she must've had on her face, Hermione burst into the Arithmancy classroom. She was approximately thirty seconds late, Professor Vector only just beginning her lecture. She had been startled by Hermione's entrance, her thin eyebrows shooting up high across her brow.

"Miss Granger," Professor Vector said, fumbling nervously with her glasses. "I wasn't expecting - "

"Oh, professor, I'm _so _sorry I'm late!" Hermione exclaimed crazily. "I never meant to – I was – the staircase - oh and…" She gave up trying to explain and concentrated solely on not collapsing into tears.

"Now, now," the professor said awkwardly, a little taken aback by the girl's ardent apology. "I know you're not one to be tardy. Let's see," she turned from her student to quickly glance across the room. "Why don't you take a seat over there by Mr. Zabini?"

Hermione looked around at her classmates in horror. Every single Arithmancy student was there – even the Hufflepuff who was always five minutes late, and the two boys who were continuously in the Hospital Wing after accidents in Herbology. All of the seats were full. Except one.

Any other day she would not have given a care who she sat by; she was there for the class and the class alone. She struggled to remind herself of that as she reluctantly walked to the seat next to a very smug-looking Zabini, and sat rigidly down.

"Distracted?"

She glared at him mightily. Apparently he took this as an invitation.

"Forget more notes?"

Ignoring the Slytherin, she pulled out her quill, ink, and finally the infamous notes. She was about to wave them in his face when she realized that they were not her Arithmancy ones, but Ancient Runes. Hermione kept neat, very precise notes for every class, whether needed or no. It seemed that until now she had never confused them. If she didn't have them, while she would've been fine, it was something she liked to have as a foundation for her study time. She nearly shrieked, and would have if Professor Vector had not continued her lesson at that precise moment.

"So, basically, given its placement, six is the balance number in this luck charm, therefore having a healthy - " the professor was saying.

"Ancient Runes?" Blaise Zabini said incredulously. "Granger, your brain must be finally splitting at the seams…"

" – and after its stability comes the resourceful number - "

"I do suppose they could look alike though," he mused, "Runes do sometimes resemble numbers. From afar," he added, leering.

"Be quiet," she whispered shrilly, attempting to make new notes on the backside of the others. Her empty stomach made this torment no better; her nerves were raw and she was inches away from hexing him to some place particularly nasty.

"Tut, tut. That will only confuse you further."

"Underneath those two comes the passion number - "

"I am _not _confused," she insisted to him, scribbling madly.

"Nine is the most purposeful and important number in the entire charm. It is located in the center beneath stability and resource," Professor Vector was pointing to her written example on the chalk board. "Without it, the answer would be lifeless – no desire, will, or meaning. Even if the latter is diminutive in the written equation, its power is still relevant. Look at the structure of - "

"I believe you _are_ muddled," Zabini drawled on, fiddling with his quill. "You seriously lack a passion number." He grinned at her wickedly.

Hermione shook with indignation, but said nothing. She concentrated on her notes.

"Or maybe it's a stability number, due to the state of your - " he was continuing.

"Please shut up," she said politely, dangerously. Her eyes flashed with an arrant ferocity as she gazed into his swarthy face.

He observed her in a perplexed sort of way, but was silent throughout the rest of the lesson.


End file.
